In a foreign country, our protagonists put up in a hotel. It is a sweltering summer and there seems to be no end to the daylight. Our protagonists wait and wait for the sun to dip, but it doesn’t. Fed up, they head down to the reception, wary of the people still on their trail (since the job they’d pulled back home). What’s the worst they could find?

And here is my response:

The Hotel

Claire wiped the sweat off her face. Her eyes were still fixed on the dry group of trees in the distance.

I couldn’t stop myself from staring at her; the fitted gray shirt she always wore, a long ponytail and gray pants so tight that I didn’t need to imagine what she wore below. I tried to see her in a dress.

He was a student, not even 16 years, when the disease bit for the first time. He missed an essay deadline because of it – but since he was well liked that was no big deal.

Life seemed to go on nearly the same – sport, eating, socializing – but his studies suffered from the disease. And more so, he himself suffered. The day was lethargic. The night was restless. He felt like the world was resting on his back and slowly crushing his shoulder blades under an ever-increasing load of new duties and deadlines.

Before long the disease showed its full effect. His mind kept weaving thoughts of duty and failure. His body slowly fell apart – bad sleep, painful legs, a tennis arm and the typical painfully hunched shoulders from which an expert can quickly recognize the ill. Every day it got worse, but he lived on. Every week it got worse, but smiles kept him alive. With every year it got worse, but life didn’t leave him alone. Continue reading →